


Speak and Listen

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Brief suicidal thoughts, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, References to Depression, Sex while menstruating, The case bit is real iffy don't look at it too closely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: Sherlock is the first person to look at John and see potential instead of waste. John is the first person to look at Sherlock and see a woman instead of a freak.Since the day Joanna “John” Watson had decided to enlist, there was one question she’d hated more than any other:Why?Why would you join the military?As if a woman couldn’t want to serve her country. As if a woman couldn’t fight for what she believed in. As if a woman couldn’t thrive in a male dominated field, or withstand the physical and mental strain, or possess the ambition and bravery and composure necessary to perform under pressure.She hated that question.





	Speak and Listen

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in February for Fem Slash February and then school and life got insane and I literally only had time to finish writing it this month. So, yeah. Here's some badass women.

Since the day Joanna “John” Watson had decided to enlist, there was one question she’d hated more than any other: _Why?_

_Why would you join the military?_

As if a woman couldn’t want to serve her country. As if a woman couldn’t fight for what she believed in. As if a woman couldn’t thrive in a male dominated field, or withstand the physical and mental strain, or possess the ambition and bravery and composure necessary to perform under pressure.

She hated that question.

 

Then she was shot and invalided and found a new question to hate: _What happened?_

_What happened to you?_

Because when people found out the answer, there was always a sort of vindicated look under the pity. A sort of _see, this is what happens when women try to fight_ hidden beneath _you poor thing._

And while John could handle being proven wrong when she actually _was_ wrong, what she could not swallow was someone looking at the consequences of her career and deciding that she had made the wrong choice.

As if her service wasn’t worth the wound. As if her efforts hadn’t saved lives. As if her years of fighting with some of the most courageous men and women, and witnessing horrific violence and bloodshed, and sitting bored out of her mind for weeks waiting for the world to blow up in her face, was all a pointless waste.

Because what was she now? No, she wasn’t seen as an invalided soldier. No, she wasn’t seen as a surgeon with a hand tremor. She was seen as a woman with a limp, prematurely aged skin and PTSD, past her prime, husbandless and childless. In a word, she was useless.  

The pity was just the icing on the cake.

 

One night she fell asleep after a couple drinks too many, her mind warring between self-pity and self-loathing, and opened her eyes to rifle flashes and blood-sticky hands.

_Sand explodes in the air around her as bullets plunge into the ground, her head spinning and throat aching, the soldier under her hands hemorrhaging from a gut wound._

_“You’re going to be alright,” she bites out. “You’re going to get through this.”_

_A shaking hand grips her wrist hard. “You’re such a liar, sis,” Harry spits, blood bubbling at the corners of her lips. “Nothing is going to be alright again.”_

She woke to darkness, thrashing in her bedsheets, clothes still on, so disoriented she rolled out of bed and fell hard on her hands and knees. The landing jarred her entire skeleton: it felt like a nail being hammered into her bad shoulder, the pain so intense she collapsed onto her side and gagged onto the hardwood floor.

She stayed there, in the foetal position, until the first rays of sun intruded into her room. She tracked a single dust mote as it floated through the air, so slowly she could almost pretend that time itself had stopped, that this, too, was just another nightmare. But the light brought with it the harsh reality of daytime, her weakness on excruciating display through a magnifying glass. Intolerable. Pathetic.

That morning was the first time she looked at her gun with contemplation.

 

When Mike introduced her to Sherlock Holmes, a tall, reed-thin, razor of a woman, John waited warily, resigned, for a tiny headshake of pity, a small frown, perhaps a nearly inaudible sigh.

It didn’t come.

Instead what she got was an airing of her family’s dirty laundry, a diagnosis and an invitation to a flat share.

As Sherlock swept out the door, sturdy boot-heels clacking against the floor, John threw a baffled look at Mike.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “She’s always like that.”

 

What struck John the most was how incredibly _alive_ Sherlock was. She was a greyhound quivering at the gate, she was potential energy set to explode, she was a violin string taut enough to snap. After wandering the city like a ghost for months, John felt reborn simply orbiting in Sherlock’s universe. Sherlock was rude and arrogant and _brilliant_ and _God_ John felt like she could actually breathe again.

 

The first thing they did after Sherlock cured John’s limp, risked her life to prove a murderous cabbie wrong, and had her stupid life saved by an anonymous shooter (who would hopefully remain anonymous), was stuff themselves on Chinese.

Well, first Sherlock insisted on supervising as John washed the gun powder from her hands, crowding John into the restaurant loo.

“I am a doctor, Sherlock,” John reminded her. “I know how to wash my hands.”

“One can never be too thorough,” she dismissed, watching over John’s shoulder as John scrubbed under each fingernail. John’s shoulder length hair was tied back in a ponytail, baring her neck to each brush of breath as Sherlock exhaled, sending a shiver down her spine. When John leaned forward subtly, Sherlock only inched closer, her warmth radiating all along John’s back.

Flustered, John roughly turned off the taps and reached for the paper towel. A long white hand darted up and snatched her right wrist. Startled, trapped, her mind went blank.

The next moment, she found herself shoving Sherlock back against the bathroom wall, forearm pressing against a slender throat. Sherlock’s hands were raised, palms out, her eyes wide.

John jerked back so quickly she bruised her tailbone on the sink. Heart hammering, throat tight, she lunged for the door and pushed out of the loo.

“Joanna!”

She nearly slammed her hip against a table as she stalked through the restaurant, bee lining for the closest exit, startling a waiter.

“Be right back,” came Sherlock’s voice behind her as she stumbled out the front door.

Out on the street, cool night air washed over her. She forced herself to inhale through her nose, exhale from her mouth.

“John, stop,” Sherlock commanded, a ring of authority in her voice, and John found herself coming to a halt in the middle of the pavement. Her hands were still wet. They were shaking. She tightened them into fists.

Walking around her, keeping her distance, Sherlock came to stand in front of her, hovering uncertainly as John closed her eyes, back against the wall, and breathed. Breathed. Breathed. When at last it felt like her heart wasn’t going to explode out of her mouth, she opened her eyes and tipped her head back. Thudded her head hard against the brick.

“Don’t.”

John glanced at her, at her thin-pressed lips and wide eyes, and had to look away again. Then, because John Watson was not a coward, she forced herself to meet Sherlock’s mascaraed, sea-glass eyes. “I’m sorry. That was inexcusable, I can –”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, her voice exasperated. Her hand twitched then stilled at her side. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you, it was my mistake.”

“What.” John cleared her throat. “What did you want?”

Sherlock shifted, nothing so overt as shuffling her feet, but her stance somehow hinted at awkwardness. “I wanted to feel your gun calluses.”

For a long moment, John just stared at her, at the hint of a blush that began to peek up from under her scarf. “My gun calluses.”

“They’re interesting!” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I’ve never met a left-handed person who shoots with their right hand.”

John burst into laughter, sagging against the wall.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, sulkily, but her lips were twitching reluctantly.

“Curiosity really does kill the cat. Jesus,” she gasped, “you’ve no self-preservation instincts at all, do you?”

“You’re one to talk,” Sherlock retorted, small smile still in place. “You joined the army.”

For a moment John wondered if that was a dig, a judgement, but Sherlock’s eyes were soft, her eyebrows amused. “That was for a good cause,” John pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, the cases are my cause, my purpose. The rest is just…extra.”

John’s smile dimmed, her mind turning to poison pills and drugs busts, no friends and plenty of enemies.

Clearing her throat, Sherlock nodded back towards the restaurant. “Will you eat with me?”

John wasn’t really hungry anymore, but she hadn’t seen Sherlock eat a thing since they’d met yesterday, and given her fashion model height, Sherlock really was far too skinny. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

With a relieved smile, Sherlock led the way back inside, holding the door for her and privately thinking that John could benefit from Mrs. Hudson’s baking.

They then proceeded to stuff themselves on Chinese.

 

John liked to imagine that she had a healthy self-confidence, but on the occasions she compared herself to Sherlock, it was almost comical how dissimilar they were. While Sherlock was perfectly styled hair, tailored women’s suits and subtly applied makeup, John was straight shoulder-length hair, casual jeans and jumpers and a bit of chapstick when her lips got dry. Although John had always been proud of her body and what it was capable of, sometimes she would look at Sherlock’s miles of smooth, porcelain skin, and would become keenly aware of the scar tissue holding her weary bones together. And while she was no slouch when it came to intelligence – she’d gone through medical school and the army, after all – she was no natural born genius like Sherlock, whose brain made connections in the time between her blinking at someone and opening her mouth.

Yet, despite their differences, as they settled into their cohabitation, John found that they complemented each other rather well. Sherlock loved to talk and John was a captive audience, her morbid sense of humour meshed perfectly with John’s sarcastic wit, and her ability to know everything at a glance meant that John was saved from awkward excuses when her shoulder ached, or when she’d barely slept due to nightmares.

It also became quickly apparent that Sherlock had ‘black moods’ just like John did. For Sherlock, this meant lying on the couch, barely moving, for days, while John hovered uncertainly, forcing tea into her hands at regular intervals. For Sherlock, it was ennui strong enough to cause physical pain when the world stagnated and her brain rebelled, a permanent crease digging between her eyebrows and stinging insults bursting from between her pinched lips. If it became too bad, John decided, she would broach the topic of medical treatment.

John’s periods of depression were less dramatic and less predictable. For John, the intrusion of unwanted memories could happen without provocation, bombarding her with thoughts of blood and sand and screams, coating her muscles with lead and shoving a white hot poker into her shoulder. The first time she didn’t get out of bed by her usual 8 am, Sherlock came bounding up the stairs twenty minutes later and threw her door open. Awake and unsurprised, John continued to stare at the ceiling, not wanting to see Sherlock’s expression.

“I’m just having a lie in, Sherlock, go away.”

“You haven’t slept.”

John couldn’t find the energy to respond. She pictured herself being absorbed by the mattress and disappearing, all her pain and exhaustion melting into cotton and springs. After a moment, Sherlock left.

Ridiculously, John felt her eyes burn with tears at the abandonment, and mentally chastised herself. Yes, Sherlock had cured her limp, but she wasn’t a therapist, she wasn’t going to fix John’s fucked up head.

“Alright, Watson, enough of this,” she muttered. “Get your arse up.”

She was still lying there when Sherlock came back up the stairs, carrying Mrs. Hudson’s serving tray laden with tea and jam and toast. John stared at her, completely nonplussed. Coming to one side of the bed, Sherlock placed the tray on John’s bedside table and looked down her nose at her. “Shove over.”

Mutely, John did so, and Sherlock, still in her PJs, tucked herself under the covers and leaned back against the headboard. “What are you doing?”

“I know you’re not the most luminous of people, John, but surely even you can recognize breakfast in bed.” Her voice was haughty, but she glanced at John out of the corner of her eyes, watching her reaction.

Dragging herself to sit up, John contemplated how she should respond. She considered thanking her, getting angry, leaving the room, hugging her. In the end, she just said, “Did you bring the raspberry jam?”

They got crumbs all over the sheets, but by 9:30 John felt able to face the world again, and had to admit it was nice to have another warm body next to her in bed again, even if it was only for an hour.

 

In some ways, Sherlock reminded John of a distant aunt she’d met once as a child. A successful lawyer, a career woman through and through, Aunt Gillian hadn’t been married and had had no interest in raising a family. As far as John knew, that had never changed. John had admired Aunt Gillian’s independence, but had thought her life seemed a little lonely, in a big house all by herself. Aunt Gillian hadn’t smiled much, when John had met her, hadn’t seemed to know what to say to eight-year-old Joanna and ten-year-old Harriet.

But while Aunt Gillian had been stiff and flat and hard, Sherlock was passionate, curious, captivating. Sherlock had Aunt Gillian’s fierce independence, but while Gillian’s career had seemed like work, Sherlock’s Work was her life. It was invigorating, inspiring, and made John want to be part of the cases, made the Work just as important as the Consulting Detective herself. 

 

Of course, there were aspects of living with a consulting detective that drove her barmy, too. Experiments covering the entire kitchen table and every counter space, biohazardous materials in the fridge, and, good God, Sherlock took ages in the loo.

“Sherlock, I need to get in there! I’ve got an appointment in half an hour!”

“I’ve not finished my hair yet.”

“Finish it later!”

A scoff managed to travel through the closed door. “It doesn’t work that way, John. You’ll just have to come in if you’re in such a hurry.”

John inhaled deeply, barefoot in the hallway in her PJ’s, clothing for the day in her arms, and considered her options. She could just not go to her session with Ella, but she’d missed the last one because of a case. She could also just go to her session without showering, but that would just make Ella think her more of a wreck than usual.

Nope, this was happening. “You asked for it,” she warned, and opened the door.

Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror in her blue dressing gown, which plunged scandalously to her diaphragm, exposing the bones of her chest. John averted her gaze, instead watching how Sherlock was scrunching her hair with her fingers, the scent of her hair product heavy in the air.

“You couldn’t do that after I’d showered?” John huffed, squeezing past her ridiculous flatmate and piling her outfit on the closed toilet seat.

“The product needs to be applied while my hair is damp, John,” Sherlock explained, the ‘ _you’re an idiot’_ strongly implied by her tone. “If I waited until after you’d showered it wouldn’t be damp anymore.”

“Prat,” John muttered, stepping into the tub and pulling the shower curtain closed.

The curtain was immediately yanked back open, revealing Sherlock with her brow furrowed.

John raised her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

“Were you planning on showering with your pyjamas on?”

“Um, no.”

They stared at each other with similar expressions of confusion.

“Didn’t you have communal showers in the army?”

“Er… yes? Your point being?”

“Then why are you changing in the tub?” Sherlock snapped, exasperated.

John stared at her. “Because having to use communal showers during my career didn’t turn me into an exhibitionist? Because privacy, when available, is still the default when in company? Because I didn’t think you needed to see my tits first thing in the morning?”

“Oh, dull,” Sherlock sighed, like John was being difficult, and tugged the curtain closed again. “And you’re not going to your therapy session, you need to go shopping.”

For a moment, John gazed at the geometric pattern of the shower curtain, still processing. She decided there was no making sense of her deranged flatmate and quickly stripped.

 

The instant she stepped out of the loo, dressed and hair hastily dried and brushed, Sherlock thrust a list at her. John took it automatically. “What’s this?” She scanned the list of chemical names and various supplies.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Shopping list.”

“I already said I’ve got an appointment.”

“And I already said you’re not going.”

“Sherlock,” John growled, attempting to step around the human barricade.

“I need these things for a time-sensitive experiment.”

“If it’s so time-sensitive, go buy them yourself.”

“I can’t,” she insisted, spreading her arms and legs so that she took up the entire hallway, blocking John’s attempts of escape.

John pursed her lips, considering ducking and crawling between Sherlock’s long legs. “For fuck’s sake, why not?”

“I have horrible social anxiety. I can’t handle the crowds,” Sherlock admitted, eyes wide and guileless.

John laughed. “Nice try.”

Dropping the act, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t understand you, Joanna. She can’t fix you.”

Tensing, John stopped trying to lunge under Sherlock’s arms, feeling suddenly a bit lightheaded. “But you can?” she asked lowly.

“No, I –”

“I’m not your experiment, Sherlock,” John spat, heart hammering. “I’m not some locked-room murder that you can –”

“She can’t fix you,” Sherlock interrupted loudly, “Because you’re not broken.”

John’s mouth snapped shut, eyes wide.

Sherlock’s ice blue eyes bore into her for a moment before she retrieved her phone from her back pocket, showing John the screen. “And look, now you’re late anyway, so you might as well do the shopping.”

John looked down at the list crumpled in her fist. “I don’t even know where to get half of these things.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll go with you!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning and stalking to the front door, John trailing behind her. “Happy now?” Sherlock threw John’s coat at her before grabbing her own.

“Confused, actually.”

“Well, that is your natural state, so…” Sherlock muttered with a grin, ducking as John swiped at her perfectly coiffed hair.

 

As they were walking to the shop, side by side, John kept her gaze straight ahead as she said, “I’m not –” and gestured vaguely at her head.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Sherlock glance at her and then face forward again. “Neither am I,” Sherlock said simply.

 

“What do you need a laxative for?” John wondered, leading the way to the pharmacy section. She tried to surreptitiously check Sherlock’s abdomen for any signs of bloating.

“I’m not going to use it as a _laxative_ ,” Sherlock scoffed. “And I’m not in need of a _check-up_ , Doctor.”

Pursing her lips, John turned down an aisle, passing shelves of feminine hygiene products.

“Mineral oil has many uses. It can create an anaerobic environment…”

When she realized Sherlock had fallen silent, John looked up. “I’m listening.”

Halted in the middle of the aisle, Sherlock was making her _observing_ face, narrowed eyes flitting over John’s expression and clothing.

John glanced down at herself and around the aisle, but they were alone. “What?”

“It bothers you.”

Sighing, John raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Sherlock gestured behind John. “You haven’t been getting your menstruation since you returned to London. It bothers you.”

John looked over her shoulder at the shelves of pads and tampons and wondered what expression or body language Sherlock had noticed, reading her like a primary school book. With a bemused shake of the head, John continued on down the aisle. “What makes you think so?”

An impatient sound followed her. “When you moved in, you placed a single box of tampons under the bathroom sink, meaning you expected to need them, but you haven’t touched the box since. I myself have an irregular menstrual cycle and thus my supply of feminine hygiene products is equally sparse, so you haven’t been using mine, which I would have noticed anyway. In the months of our co-habitation, you also have not once shown any typical symptoms of menstruation, I haven’t seen any used products in the rubbish –” An elderly man browsing the shampoo products glared in disgust as they passed and John glared right back. “And just now as we were passing the tampons and such you clenched your left hand, which you only ever do when agitated, and you purposely averted your gaze. Thus, you haven’t been getting your periods, and it bothers you.”

They came to a stop in front of the mineral oil. “Brilliant,” John admitted. “But did you really scavenge the rubbish in search of bloody tampons? Because that’s a little off.”

“One can learn all sorts of invaluable information from one’s rubbish,” Sherlock informed her, standing a little too close and not even looking at the mineral oil. “You didn’t answer my question.”

With a sigh, John stepped back a little so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck so much, and faced her vulture-like companion, feeling a bit like a dying wildebeest. “I didn’t realize you’d asked one.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and her lips pinched. “ _Why_ does it bother you? You have no desire to reproduce – not at the moment, at any rate. I myself hate the inconvenience of menstruation – the less it happens the better.”

“Have you spoken to your doctor about that? You know an irregular cycle can indicate hormonal imbalance or poor diet or PCOS –”

Sherlock’s eye-roll was nearly violent. “I’m fine. Stop avoiding the question.”

“It’s not really any of your business,” John snapped. “It’s _weird_ enough that you’ve been apparently tracking my periods or lack thereof, I don’t think you need to know the intimate workings of my reproductive system.”

With a nearly imperceptible flinch, Sherlock quickly skirted John and stalked away.

John pinched the bridge of her nose and swore under her breath. “What about the mineral oil?” she called.

“Grab whichever,” Sherlock ordered.

John snatched a 500 mL bottle and trotted after her nosy, oversensitive flatmate. “Look, it’s just a bit personal, alright? I wasn’t ready to be interrogated.”

“It’s fine. I realize my attention can be intrusive. In the future I will attempt to keep my observations to myself.”

“No, just, shut up.” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tugged her into an empty card aisle. _Congrats on making a tiny human with your genitals!_ one card shouted at her. “Yes, your deductions can be intrusive, but no, you’re not weird –”

Sherlock raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Okay, yes, you’re a little weird, but that’s not a _bad_ thing. I just mean,” John licked her lips, eyes falling on a card with a picture of a positive pregnancy test and the words _Nailed it!_ “I just mean, don’t stop being yourself. Your deductions are brilliant.”

A small smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips, too gentle to be amused. “Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt my feelings.”

 _Yeah, right_. “Oh, okay, that’s good.”

Sherlock glanced at the mineral oil in John’s hand. “Which one did you get? Oh, that’s the wrong type.”

“You said to grab any one!”

“Any one but that one!”

“Oh, my god, you madwoman,” John muttered, retracing her steps to the laxative section.

 

Laden with bags of groceries, they opted to cab home, some horrid pop song playing on the radio that John had never heard before.

“It’s like reverse culture shock,” John said, watching the world move backwards outside her window. “Like I’m home, but not. My body is staging a revolt, everything is out of sync, everything is a little _off_. Sometimes I think that my body is trying to tell me something, that I’m in the wrong place, or that I’m doing something wrong.” She shrugged, avoiding Sherlock’s reflection in the window. “Plus, I’m thirty-eight years old. It’s not like I’m young. If I want kids I can’t wait much longer.”

They sat in silence while Sherlock processed that, John watching a couple walking along the sidewalk, the father pushing a pram.

“The only time I feel _in sync_ is on a case,” Sherlock said at last and John turned to look at her in surprise. She hadn’t really expected an answer. Sherlock met her gaze, eyes serious. “You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s all transport anyway.”

With a smile, John shook her head. “No matter how much you want to, you can’t completely separate mind and body, Sherlock. They come in one messy package.”

 

One of the best things about being back in London, John thought, along with properly hot showers and the utter lack of sand, was the women.

“Must you?” Sherlock snapped, not even deigning to look up from where she appeared to be sniffing some dirt.

Smile drooping, John turned away from their client’s sister, with whom she’d been chatting. “Must I what?” she asked.

“Try to pull at a crime scene,” Sherlock clarified, voice dripping with disdain.

Tanya’s eyes widened as John turned back to her, apologies on her lips.

“Oh, I’m distracting you,” Tanya exclaimed, cheeks pinkening. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you get back to it.”

“No, no,” John denied at the same time Sherlock huffed, “Yes, thank you.” With a glare at her flatmate, John insisted, “She’s just a prat, ignore her.”

A reluctantly charmed smile tugged at a corner of Tanya’s lips.

“John, we’re here to _work_.”

The smile fled and John knew she’d lost her. Not many people were willing to fight Sherlock for John’s attention. “I’d better check on Alex, anyway,” Tanya excused herself, disappearing back inside the house. Another love interest thwarted by Sherlock Holmes.

The thing was, there hadn’t been a lot of women in the army, right. And since moving in with the whirlwind that was Sherlock, John had finally been feeling like herself again. She was eating more than one meal a day, she was sleeping more than two hours at a time, she’d even lost her bloody limp. And with her returned lust for life, so too had returned her lust for…well, for sex. Though her shoulder still ached occasionally and she woke from nightmares at least twice a month, the return of her libido was a sure sign of her recovering health, and also a nuisance for a bisexual woman living with a frankly gorgeous woman. A gorgeous woman who had clearly stated her lack of interest the first day they’d met.

“This isn’t even a crime scene for certain,” John complained, watching in horrified fascination as Sherlock pinched a bit of dirt between her long fingers and flicked out her tongue for a taste. “We’re here on a hunch.”

“I don’t have ‘hunches’.” Sherlock stood, brushing the knees of her tailored black trousers. John very deliberately did not look at her arse.

 

The thing was, like it or not, they still lived in a society with largely patriarchal views, where feminine traits were considered weak, but masculine traits in a woman were just as bad. Sherlock was brilliant, but she was also a woman, which meant she had to work twice as hard as any man in order to get people to listen to her. Instead of being independent, she was a cold bitch. Instead of being intelligent, she was a delusional know-it-all. Instead of being a leader, she was bossy.

Hell, she _was_ bossy. Manipulative, too, but it was because she was a woman that these personality traits were considered defects. John was enraged on Sherlock’s behalf and on the behalf of their gender.

She was also stupidly aroused.

If it had only been physical attraction, John could have ignored it. But Sherlock’s _confidence_ was what really got to John. She’d always loved a woman who wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself.

“Look, you asked for my help,” Sherlock snapped at Dimmock after ten minutes of arguing. Lestrade knew better than to second guess Sherlock’s deductions, but Dimmock was new to this whole DI thing. “I know I’m right, you know I’m right, the only reason you’re waffling over what to do is because I don’t have a prick between my legs, so I think we’re done here. Come on, John.”

John, a tad dazed, had to trot a little to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs. “He’ll come around,” John reassured her as they left the crime scene. “He’s an insecure idiot, but he’ll see reason eventually.”

Sherlock snorted, face stormy. “Of course _he_ has to be the one to give the order before anyone _does_ anything.” A black curl blew into her face and she brushed it away impatiently. “Let’s go to Angelo’s, I feel like pasta.”

“Er…” John checked her watch. “I’ve, uh, got a date actually.” It took a moment before John realized Sherlock was no longer beside her. She turned to find Sherlock frozen several steps back.

“A what?”

“A date?” John repeated. “Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

“That’s what I was suggesting.”

Startled, John looked hard at Sherlock’s face. “No, it wasn’t. Not unless you’re planning on cheating on the Work.”

“Maybe I would,” she said, but she was smirking. She started walking again and John had to wait a moment for her heart to restart.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

 

The date did not go well.

Lindsay was utterly lovely, but John couldn’t help but find her a little dull. They had little in common and John felt like she was putting on an act the entire time, softening her edges, afraid to put Lindsay off. She listened to Lindsay talk about her students and her dog and her love of Star Trek, and was incapable of picturing her scars and nightmares and illegal firearm in Lindsay’s safe, normal life.

It confirmed her suspicions: that she would never be able to fit into civilian life again.

So she started working out. There were certain exercises she was meant to do for her shoulder that she had been neglecting, and if she wanted to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs she needed to keep fit. The first time she returned to the flat sweaty and winded after a morning jog, Sherlock was just coming out of her bedroom, wrapped in her bedsheet. She froze at the sight of John doing cooldown stretches, her expression one of utter confusion.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

Raising an eyebrow and trying to avoid looking at the hint of smooth collarbone where the sheet had slipped a bit, John replied blandly, “Can’t you deduce?”

“You went _jogging_ ,” Sherlock exclaimed with undisguised horror. “Why would you go _jogging_?”

“Unfortunately, not all of us can live in either complete lassitude or absolute frenzy,” John retorted, balancing as she held one of her feet behind her, stretching her quadriceps. “Most humans require exercise in order to stay in shape.”

“What an absolute waste of energy.”

The sheet had slipped a little more and John promptly dropped her foot and bent at the waist, keeping her legs straight as she pressed her hands to the floor, simultaneously stretching her hamstrings and averting her gaze. “It helps with the restlessness,” she blurted.

“Restlessness?”

John grimaced in self-chastisement. She stood up, hoping her blush was disguised by her exertion. “Between cases,” she explained quickly. “You know.”

Sherlock still stood just outside her bedroom door, that damned sheet completely off one shoulder now, her expression unreadable. “Yes,” she said simply, and shuffled into the kitchen. The sheet was wrapped tight around her body, doing little to disguise the contours of her arse, and John stared at the ceiling, suppressing a groan.

“Right, I’m for the shower,” she declared, listening to Sherlock’s grunt of acknowledgement as she made her escape.

She shucked her sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower, hissing as the initial frigid spray hit her. Scrubbing herself roughly, she tried to keep her mind focused on the task of getting clean and nothing else, but she couldn’t help imagining Sherlock’s body hidden beneath that sheet. She started at Sherlock’s collarbone, following its curve in her mind, down a long, strong arm to clever, graceful fingers brushing her thigh. Her mind’s eye ran down a long leg and back up, over a protruding hip bone begging for a nip, skimmed up a flat, quivering stomach and heaving ribs, zeroed in on her modest breasts, nipples eager and hard.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she muttered and pulled the showerhead from its wall bracket. She flicked through the spray settings until the water surged in a concentrated stream from the centre of the showerhead. Bracing one hand on the wall and spreading her legs, John directed the spray at her sternum and slowly lowered the showerhead, letting the hot water rush over her diaphragm, down her stomach and lower. With a twitch of the wrist she redirected the water pressure to her inner thigh and down to one knee, then the other, and back up the other thigh, squeezing her eyes shut and sucking in quick breaths as the heat between her legs intensified. Her hips began the smallest of thrusting motions, swinging gently forwards and backwards as the tension grew, the water pressure sliding up and down the crease between leg and groin.

With a gasp, she stepped back to lean against the wall behind her, bracing herself with her toes against the tub’s wall. Her free hand slipped between her legs, spreading herself open with index and ring finger, her swollen clitoris peaking eagerly from her folds. Teeth clenched, she directed the column of water at her centre, pressing her head against the wall as the spray battered her clitoris.

A whine vibrated in her throat. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, but she ruthlessly maintained the pressure, her hips jerking fitfully, her internal muscles tightening under the onslaught. Positively panting now, she let her mind go, assailing herself with images of Sherlock’s full lips parted in pleasure, that dramatic dip of her upper lip kiss-swollen; of John’s nose buried in the curls between long, pale thighs, her tongue sliding up to Sherlock’s very centre; of Sherlock’s long neck, arched in ecstasy, marred with bruises from John’s mouth.

Her orgasm built suddenly and sharply. The squeezing of her internal muscles morphed into deep, rhythmic clenching, the hand holding the showerhead shaking as stars burst behind her closed eyelids. The spray quivered and ruthlessly pounded against her nearly oversensitive clitoris, and she suddenly hunched over, redirecting the showerhead to spray her cold feet, gasping as she throbbed and twitched with aftershocks.

It had happened so quickly the water was still warm.

Switching the spray back to its regular setting, she quickly rinsed off again, gently cleaning the slick away from her puffy folds. No time to shave, but she’d be wearing jeans and a jumper, and really only shaved for special occasions anyway.   

She dried herself and dressed, trying not to let the guilt and embarrassment overwhelm her, convinced that Sherlock would take one look at her and somehow know everything. She considered a proactive approach. _Yes, I was just masturbating in the shower. No, I’m not interested in your commentary._

With a deep breath and chin held high, she swept out of the loo, prepared to say just that, and was confronted with an empty flat. She exhaled in relief when she saw Sherlock’s bedroom door closed once again, then her head snapped to the kettle as it whistled irately, abandoned in the kitchen.

“Goddammit, Sherlock!” she swore and rushed to unplug the device. “Are you trying to burn the flat down?”

Her ridiculous, absentminded flatmate, who wandered the flat in nothing but a sheet and who was interested in nothing but murder and mystery. Lindsay might have been a bust, but John was just going to have to keep trying. This infatuation could not go on.  

 

It took three rudely interrupted dates, not including the mess with Sarah, with increasingly ridiculous excuses, before John started to suspect that there was something more going on than Sherlock being her usual needy self.

Taking the stairs two at a time, John burst into the flat. “Are you alright? Let me see. Is it a chemical burn or – what’s wrong with your hair?”

Sherlock was lounging on the couch, one hand against her chest the other dangling over the side. Half her hair was the curly mess it tended towards when Sherlock neglected to style it, while the other half was pin straight.

“I was attempting to straighten it but burnt my face,” Sherlock pouted, presenting her right cheekbone. “How’s Emily?”

“Amelia,” John corrected, beginning to have the nasty suspicion that she’d abandoned yet another date for no reason. She stomped over to the couch and leaned over her melodramatic flatmate to inspect the tiny red mark on her prominent cheekbone. With an irritated growl John jerked away. “You prat! You nearly gave me a heart attack! I thought you’d dumped a vat of acid over your head the way you were going on!”

“I _burnt_ my _face_ , John!” Sherlock protested. “Is it going to scar?”

“You know it’s not, you utter cock,” John snapped, clenching her fists. “Why do you feel the need to ruin every relationship I attempt? Are you really so attention starved that you can’t bear for me to take a break from my compliment delivery duties?”

Sherlock made a face and turned on her side to bury her face into the cushions.

“Oh, so now you have nothing to say?” John exclaimed.

“Oh, off with you!” Sherlock shouted, flailing to her feet and making a shooing motion. “Go have your precious shag like a proper slag.”

“Sorry, what?” John demanded, eyes wide in disbelief.

Stomping onto the coffee table and over it, Sherlock stalked closer, eyes flashing and lips mean, enunciating her words with razor precision. “Is your hormone-riddled brain really so dull that you didn’t understand me the first time? Must I repeat myself?”

If Sherlock took one step closer, John was going to punch her in the face. She sucked in a harsh breath, holding in all the horrible words waiting to spew out, and turned with military sharpness. She was out of the flat, down the stairs and on the street before she took another breath, practically jogging in her need to _get away_ or risk doing something she’d regret.

She hated that word. Hated that word even more than she hated the question _Why?_

By the time she’d come to her senses and slowed to a walk, she’d gotten herself well and truly disoriented. Tactical error, letting emotion cloud her focus. _Emotion is a defect found on the losing side_ , she thought bitterly. She swiped a hand over her face and snarled at herself when it came away damp, glistening with tears she hadn’t even been aware she’d been shedding.

The sound of steps behind her. A thrill of awareness and anticipation cut through her distraction.

“Hey, ma’am, you okay?” a male voice slurred, theatrically concerned.

John stopped walking and turned, finding herself several paces away from a rat-faced kid that looked barely twenty five, testosterone nearly oozing out of him and adrenaline jacked with chemical help.

John went suddenly calm.

She was wearing a pair of nice trousers and sturdy heels, which did great things for her arse, but hindered her balance and range of motion somewhat. She wasn’t going to be able to outrun him. Standing in the middle of a side street, poorly lit, the closest pedestrians were within shouting distance, if she got enough air for a good scream. She already knew she wasn’t going to scream.

There was another man leaning against a building wall, watching them from the shadows, less than six metres away. Rat-Face’s hands were in the front pouch of his hoodie, hiding a knife no doubt.

In her pocket, her mobile vibrated urgently.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she responded blithely. “How are you?”

Rat-Face blinked rapidly. The man in the shadows pushed himself off the wall and ambled closer. “You lost, ma’am?”

“It’s Doctor, actually.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Doctor.” He whistled. “What’s a professional woman such as youself doing around here?”

Her mobile vibrated again, longer. The two men casually inched closer to her, spread out to block the narrow street.

Her whole body felt coiled tight, her fingers tingling, her heart pounding. She could hear the shuffling of their boots, smell the whiff of alcohol on their breaths, see the sweat on Rat-Face’s upper lip. An honest grin split her face. “Why, I was hoping to meet two gents such as yourselves.”

 

Twenty minutes later found her in a holding cell, knuckles split and bruised, nose bloodied, and stifling the occasional chuckle. She’d only been sitting for about ten minutes before DI Lestrade unlocked the door.

“Christ, Joanna, what happened?” he demanded, sitting next to her on the bench and opening a first aid kit. “You okay?”

The struggle not to laugh actually hurt. “You should see the other guys.”

“I did, you lunatic, as they were being loaded into the ambulance.” He rubbed gently at the dried blood under her aching nose with a damp cloth.

John allowed the attention grudgingly, resisting the urge to point out that she could treat herself. Greg’s hands were warm, his handsome face concerned. “It was self defense. Faced with two attackers and no immediate escape option, I had to subdue them as quickly as possible.”

His eyes met hers, eyebrows raised. “I’m not chastising you, you did the right thing. Let me see your hands.”

“Are they pressing charges?” She made a face at the sting of antiseptic on her split knuckles.

Greg snorted. “I’d like to see them try.”

John smiled at the dark tone, charmed despite herself at Greg’s protectiveness. She couldn’t stand coddling or condescension, but the DI respected her abilities, like he believed in Sherlock’s. Protectiveness was second nature to him.

“So, what happened?” he repeated.

“I just said –”

“Between you and Sherlock?”

“Oh.” John pursed her lips and watched as Greg began wrapping gauze around her knuckles. “We had a row. I needed some air, so I went for a walk.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “In the slums?”

John shrugged. “Wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

Greg frowned at her, but didn’t get the chance to respond before a commotion broke out in the hall.

“You can’t go back there, ma’am!”

“If it weren’t for me the Yard would never catch any criminals, would be forced to shut down and you’d be out of a job. I practically own you so let me see my friend or I’ll tell your wife what all those staff golfing weekends are really about.”

With an amused huff, John watched as Greg shot up and out of the cell, disappearing from view to allay her infuriating flatmate. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall as she listened, the last of the adrenaline fizzling out, leaving the sensation of a lead blanket being draped over her suddenly exhausted body.

“Let her in, McNeil, I’ve got it covered.”

“Where’s John? No, why is John in a cell? I’ll pay her bail, release her,” Sherlock ordered imperiously, volume increasing as they approached.

“She’s not under arrest, I was just treating her injuries.”

The last several footsteps to the cell came rapidly as Sherlock fairly sprinted around the corner, face pale and hair an utter mess, half still straight, the other half a mane of wild curls. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes wide as she observed John slumped on the bench, gaze flicking from her bandaged hands to her face to her shoes to her hair. Pushing herself to standing, John watched Sherlock’s breath hitch as her eyes zeroed in on the ripped knees of her trousers and the blood stain on the front of her blouse, the ringing of _slag slag slag_ fading in the face of an utterly panicked Sherlock Holmes. Greg opened the cell door for her and she stepped out, approaching her flatmate uncertainly.

Almost immediately, Sherlock engulfed her in a hug, holding her tight against her chest and burying her face in John’s hair. Gobsmacked, struggling a little to breathe with the constricting arms, John tentatively returned the hug, placing her hands on Sherlock’s bowed back.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, and felt the way Sherlock sagged a little against her, breath rushing out against her scalp.

Sherlock pulled back all at once, arms releasing and eyes shuttering as Greg watched the two of them with bemused fondness.

“Want a ride home?” he offered.

Feeling ready to sleep for a week, John sighed, “God, yes.”

 

John knew Sherlock was sorry by the way she held the police car’s door open for her. John knew Sherlock was really sorry by the way she ignored the front passenger seat, slipping in beside John instead. John and Greg made eye contact in the rear-view mirror, sharing nearly identical expressions of shock.

When they arrived at 221b, Sherlock tumbled out of the vehicle before they’d even come to a complete stop.

Greg whistled. “Never thought I’d see the day. A guilty Sherlock Holmes. Milk it for all its worth, eh, John?”

With a bewildered shake of the head, John thanked him and exited the vehicle. Sherlock held the front door open for her and followed her up the stairs to their flat, making the hair on the back of John’s neck stand up with her proximity.

“You’re not a slag,” Sherlock blurted the moment they stepped into the sitting room.

John collapsed into her chair. “I know, Sherlock.”

“And even if you did lead an especially promiscuous lifestyle, that does not give me the right to cast judgement upon your choices.”

Eyebrows nearly disappearing under her fringe, John stared at her flatmate, who stood in the middle of the room, hands empty at her sides. “I know, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “Tea?”

“Please.”

With a sharp little nod, Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, the burbling of boiling water accompanying the racket of harshly handled crockery. Despite her throbbing nose and knuckles, John’s eyelids were beginning to droop by the time Sherlock reappeared, shoving a too-hot mug into her hands. With a grimace, John balanced the mug on the arm of her chair as Sherlock placed another mug by her own chair, then threw herself onto the black cushions.

“It’s quite impressive, the way you fought off two men at once. I’m not surprised, of course, what with your army training and the competence I’ve seen during our cases, but nonetheless, it’s always somewhat remarkable for a woman to possess combat skills.”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, lips twitching. “You don’t need to keep apologizing. I know you said what you did out of anger.” She took a sip of tea, humming in contentment as the hot liquid soothed her dry throat.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea, John closing her eyes against Sherlock’s considering gaze. Nothing had really been resolved, she knew, but at least she was beginning to understand the reasoning behind Sherlock’s possessiveness of John’s attention.

John would not be adverse to a relationship with Sherlock, would welcome it even. What she _was_ adverse to was ending all attempts at dating while Sherlock “High-functioning Sociopath” Holmes decided whether or not a relationship with John would be worth the effort.

With a sigh she opened her eyes, finding Sherlock still staring at her.

“Would you like something cold for your nose? I think I have a frozen pig liver in the freezer.”

John couldn’t help it, she laughed. Sherlock cocked her head slightly, still watching her. “Thank you, but my nose will be fine without a pig liver.” Chuckling around the lip of the mug, John took one last mouthful of tea and stood. “Finished?”

Sherlock looked down at the empty mug in her hands and nodded. John took both mugs to the kitchen and placed them in the sink to wash later, then went to lean on the back of her chair.

“I’m not going to stop dating unless you say something.”

With a scowl, Sherlock glared at the fireplace. “That is horribly vague.”

John shrugged. “You’re a genius, I’m sure you can work it out. Take all the time you need, but I’m not going to put my life on hold for you.”

Sherlock said nothing, not that John really expected her to. With a soft ‘goodnight’, John left to brush her teeth and go straight to bed.

 

Despite what John had said about her intention to continue dating, Amelia had been uninterested in giving her another chance, and since then, between work and ongoing cases, John simply hadn’t had the time for much of a social life. She spent her rare leisure time either relaxing with Sherlock in the flat, or having the occasional pint with an old rugby mate or Lestrade when he needed to vent about his ex-wife.

Since the ‘slag incident’, numerous small changes had occurred between Sherlock and John. Sometimes, John would notice Sherlock staring when she was writing up a case, or John would catch an increase of visual checks for approval while at a crime scene. Sherlock no longer protested when John insisted upon treating her various cuts and bruises, and she seemed to take every opportunity for physical contact: grabbing John’s shoulders in excitement, pulling John’s wrist to hurry her, placing a hand on John’s back to guide her. She still belittled John’s intelligence periodically, but she no longer made any comment when John shared a smile with a flirting client. 

Three weeks later, John woke feeling groggy and bloated. She dressed slowly, opting for a pair of loose trousers, and shuffled into the kitchen for her morning cuppa. Sherlock was already up, reading the paper at the kitchen table, and John mumbled a good morning to her before slumping at her desk and opening her laptop, planning to make some progress on writing up their last case.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, eyeing John’s lack of breakfast.

“Stomach’s feeling a little off,” she admitted.

“You didn’t eat the ground meat in the blue container, did you?”

Pausing in her typing, John turned in her chair to glare. “No. I’m assuming by your usage of the vague term ‘meat’ that you’re not referring to beef. Is it labeled?”

Sherlock hunched over the paper again. “It’s on my shelf, why does it need to be labeled?”

“If I die of food poisoning one day, it will be your fault.”

At ten o’clock, they were interrupted by a Mr. Edward Sherman, presenting them with a case involving a dead maid, eight thousand pounds worth of missing jewelry, and no signs of forced entry. By Sherlock’s sigh, the mystery was not up to her usual standards, but Sherman’s four figure cheque had John eagerly agreeing to the case on Sherlock’s behalf.  

“It’s barely a five,” Sherlock complained once their client had gone.

“If you want that new microscope, you need to take what you can get,” John countered, and was subjected to Sherlock’s grumbling the whole way to the crime scene.

 

Their current suspect, whom they’d trailed to a café, was the maid’s brother and currently unemployed, with a string of low-paying jobs and a gambling problem.

“Just let me do the talking,” Sherlock ordered John as they watched Francis Cao from across the street. “You’re a horrid actress.”

“So what am I, your bodyguard?” John huffed, crossing her arms.

Throwing her a wink and a grin, Sherlock nudged her with her shoulder. “You’re my wingman.”

John spluttered as they jogged across the street. “Sorry? Your what?”

“My moral support,” Sherlock said blithely, and opened the café door. “Go order us something and meet me after.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make an impression.” With that, Sherlock walked towards Cao’s table, transforming into another woman entirely. Her athletic, efficient gate turned slow and suggestive, her straight posture softened, and her high chin tilted coyly.

John watched, mouth agape, as Sherlock stopped at Cao’s table, as Cao’s eyes widened and flicked up and down Sherlock’s body. She watched as Cao smiled broadly and shook his head, gesturing to the empty spot in front of him.

“Um, are you in line?” a woman asked, and John startled out of her observation.

“What? Oh, yes, sorry,” she said, and stepped up to the counter to make her order. The names of all the drinks seemed unnecessarily complicated. She ordered two of the simplest tea they had and paid far too much, and by the time she came to stand at the side of Sherlock and Cao’s table, the two of them were leaning towards each other, Cao captivated and Sherlock laughing at something he’d said, resting her chin in one hand, twirling a curl with the other.

Cao glanced up at John and dismissively away. “Just leave them on the table, thanks.”

John gritted her teeth but looked to Sherlock for guidance, still not entirely sure what her role was.

“Oh, Francis, this is my friend, Joanna. Joanna, pull up a chair,” Sherlock offered, voice breathy and girlish. John wrinkled her nose at ‘Joanna’, but complied, placing the beverages down and dragging a chair over to sit at the edge of the table. “Francis and I were just discussing his gorgeous new watch. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Yes, gorgeous,” John agreed blandly.

Cao smiled tightly at her before returning his attention to Sherlock. John’s fingertips itched. She grabbed her drink to disguise the twitch.

“Wherever did you get it?” Sherlock continued, voice low and intimate.

Immediately, Cao’s eye shuttered. “I’m, uh, not sure. A friend gave it to me,” he said, pulling his sleeve down to cover the watch.

“A girlfriend?” Sherlock wondered, eyes widening with the barest hint of dismay.

“No, no!” Cao rushed to reassure her, and John nearly laughed, earning herself a quick quelling flick of the eyes from Sherlock. “It was my sister that gave it to me, actually.”

“Oh, how lovely, you must be very close,” Sherlock gushed. “She must be well off, to get you something so nice.”

“Um, yes, she is, yes,” Cao quickly agreed. “She’s a…a lawyer, you know. Very successful.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know where she bought it? I’m just wondering because I was thinking of getting one for my brother. I only know one other person who has one. Oh, who is it that has one, Joanna? Mr. Shelly?”

“Sherman,” John corrected, and watched the colour drain from Cao’s face.

“Mr. Sherman! That’s right – Joanna’s got such a memory for names.”

With an unsteady hand, Cao grabbed his coffee and sipped, nodding silently.

“Such a shame about the Shermans. Friends of ours, you know,” Sherlock babbled on. “They were robbed recently and their poor maid was killed!”

“Sorry,” Cao interjected, “it’s been lovely talking with you, but I’ve really got to get going.”

“The thing is, Francis,” Sherlock said, voice suddenly cold, freezing the man in his seat. Like a switch being flicked, the Consulting Detective was back, eyes hard and piercing, back ramrod straight, head tilted dangerously. John nearly sighed in relief. “I don’t think your sister is a lawyer at all. I think your sister was that poor maid. Lydia wasn’t it?”

Nearly knocking over his coffee, Cao made to push away from the table, but was stopped by John’s steely grip on his arm. He glared at her, face twisted with panic and disgust, and only the presence of the café’s patrons stopped him from reacting violently. “Let go of me, you bitch,” he hissed.

“ _Manners_ , Francis,” Sherlock tutted. “Now how about you tell us where you _really_ got that watch? Unless you’d rather make a scene in the middle of this establishment.”

“You’ve got nothing on me.”

“If I were to inspect the back of that watch, whose name would I find engraved there?” Sherlock wondered.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cao bowed his head. “I didn’t kill her,” he whispered.

“No, of course not, you’re not nearly intelligent enough,” Sherlock scoffed. “But you know who did, don’t you.”

He gave a jerky nod and John released her grip.

“Tell me,” Sherlock ordered, sharp as a drill sergeant. “Tell me and you _might_ not be sentenced for the murder of your own sister.”

 

With Francis Cao in police custody and Sherman’s expensive watch tucked away in the pocket of Sherlock’s Belstaff, Sherlock and John flagged down a cab to return home. Sherlock was typing rapidly on her mobile, no doubt researching the name Cao had given them.

“The stage lost a fine actress when you took up detective work,” John commented, unable to get Sherlock’s fake laugh out of her head.

Eyes glued to her mobile, Sherlock replied absently, “Men are predictable. With a shift of character I can incite their protectiveness, attraction or anger. The only thing that’s difficult to get from a man is his respect. It’s women that are harder to understand.”

“You _are_ a woman.”

Sherlock snorted. “Depends who you ask,” she muttered.

John frowned. “Sherlock…”

“The name Cao gave us, Anthony Black, is obviously an alias, but it confirms the connection I already suspected.”

John let it go for the moment. “What connection?”

Sherlock showed John her mobile screen, with displayed an online dating profile. “Lydia Cao and Anthony Black were dating.”

 

With what Sherlock called ‘a little hacking’ and John called ‘magic’, it was discovered that Anthony Black had had twelve different dating profiles throughout the last two years, all with the initials A.B. and all indicating relationships with maids. A quick search of old police reports showed that three of the twelve maids had been murdered during robberies.

“Serial killer,” Sherlock breathed, voice guttural in a way that sent a thrill down John’s spine.

“This has got to be a seven at least,” John said, looking over the dead girls’ images. “So, what, he finds a maid to woo, pops over while she’s cleaning and the owners are out… Then why kill three of them?”

“No, he’s more careful than that,” Sherlock murmured, eyes glazing over. “He’s charismatic, persuasive. He convinces her she deserves more, that her bosses won’t miss a bit of jewelry. If she disagrees, he breaks off the relationship. If she agrees, she shares the location of the valuables with him. He doesn’t want to get her in trouble, he says, so she’ll let him in and he’ll do the stealing, maybe even fake a struggle to make the burglary seem more realistic. Of course, he’ll share the goods with her afterwards…”

“And instead she lets him in and he kills her,” John finished, shaking her head.

“He made a mistake with the Cao siblings. The brother found out somehow and needed to be appeased.”

“Why not kill him, too?”

“Maybe Cao surprised him. Maybe he didn’t want to risk confrontation with someone who’s not physically weaker than him.”

“Jesus, and Cao let his sister’s murderer walk free in exchange for a fancy watch. How do we find this bloke?”

“He doesn’t list his address anywhere, but he must meet with his girlfriends somewhere. Hm, how about his favourite pub?” Sherlock smirked, finding the same pub listed on each dating profile.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh, when are the police ever capable of subtlety? With any luck they’ll scare him off.” John watched as Sherlock went back to the website’s homepage and clicked ‘create an account’. “No, first we’ll secure him ourselves, then we’ll notify the police.” With her lightning fast typing, Sherlock inputted John’s name in the account information field. Sex: Female. Interested in: Men. Occupation: Maid.  

“Hey!” John exclaimed, reaching for the laptop only for Sherlock to swat her hands away. “No way! I am not going on a date with a murderer!”

“Hush, it’s for a case! My face is too recognizable.”

“My face is on my blog,” John protested. “Which is far more popular than your blog.”

Sherlock scowled. Under ‘interests’, she typed: Bond films, tea, poetry, technologically inept.

“Don’t forget ‘chasing after madwomen’ and ‘cleaning up Sherlock’s messes’.”

“See,” Sherlock smirked. “You’re perfect for the maid role.” She squawked when John cuffed her over the head.

 

If Anthony Black hadn’t been a killer, John would have been flattered by how quickly he responded to the invitation Sherlock sent. As it was, she just felt a little sick to her stomach.

“What should I wear?”

“What do you normally wear to dates?”

“Well, I’m not going as myself.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “It hardly matters, John. He’s interested in your job, not your looks.”

“Fine. If there’s any chance we’re going to be chasing after this guy, then I’m wearing something comfortable. And I’m bringing my gun.”

“Hardly. The man’s moderately clever, he’ll notice a gun hiding in your waistband. I’ll bring your gun.”

John’s lower abdomen clenched suddenly.

A line appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “You alright?”

Taking a deep breath, John nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get this bastard.”

 

Anthony Black was a handsome man, John had to admit, with a charming smile and warm eyes. He was charismatic enough that John almost wondered if they had the wrong person, except for the eagerness with which he listened as John complained about cleaning her bosses’ tip of a house.

“They sound horrid,” Black sympathized, laying a soft hand over hers. _We’ve both killed people with these hands._ Sitting across from each other in a cozy booth, John could smell his aftershave and felt almost flustered by his intense attention. No one but Sherlock looked at her like that. “You deserve so much better.”

John looked down shyly, forcing herself to ignore the instincts that told her to keep her distance and check the exits. Sherlock was sitting by the bar ignoring a man who had taken a seat right next to her.

Her mobile pinged in her pocket and she grimaced. “Sorry, do you mind…?”

“Of course not, go ahead, love.”

Managing not to roll her eyes, John quickly checked her texts.

_Lestrade’s ETA 2 min. SH_

“You know,” Black said, catching her attention, “people like that, I bet they lose all sorts of stuff in their own house. They’d probably misplace a thousand pound ring and just buy another one.”

John forced herself to laugh. “It’s utterly mad,” she agreed. She fidgeted with the glass of her too-sweet drink.

“Would you like something else?” He nodded at her barely touched drink. “Is that not to your taste?”

“Oh, no, no!” John said quickly, mildly panicked. _Whatever you do, don’t let him leave the table_ , Sherlock had said. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, I insist. A pint, perhaps?”

Through the window of the pub, a police light flashed. Black’s eyes jumped away from hers. In her peripheral vision, John saw Sherlock stand up from the bar.

John leaned forward and laid a hand over Black’s tense forearm. “Actually, I would love a pint. I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth.”

At that moment, the police lights turned off and Sherlock turned to face them. A sudden cramp seized John’s lower abdomen. She didn’t know how she knew, but every instinct told her Black had noticed something was off. He was about to run.

She gripped his arm. “Anthony.”

His handsome face contorted in a snarl and, with a speed that not even John predicted, he backhanded her across the face.

Turning her head with the blow, her gasp was buried by Sherlock’s shout of outrage. Black slipped out of the booth and was halfway to the backdoor by the time John had blinked the stars from her vision. Shaking her head, she bolted after him, slamming through the backdoor before it swung completely shut, Sherlock a step ahead of her.

It was pouring out as they took their pursuit to the streets, the rain nearly blinding. Black was a shadow gliding through the back alley and John picked up her pace, a burst of energy charging through her muscles, heart hammering, lungs swelling with exhilaration. Her feet pounded against the pavement as she drew closer, overtaking Sherlock.

At the mouth of the narrow alley, a police car pulled to a stop. Lights flashing hot and cold. Siren screaming. A feral grin split John’s face.

Black stumbled to a stop, spinning around wildly, eyes wide and searching. John didn’t give him the chance to go on the offensive; she tackled him to the ground.   

With a pained grunt, he lay dazed on the pavement, John sprawled on top of him. Dropping to her knees, Sherlock seized Black’s wrists while John sat on his shins, both of them breathing hard and staring at each other, eyes alight with too much adrenaline.

By the time Black had recovered his wits enough to struggle in earnest, Lestrade and Donovan had arrived, and the four of them flipped the killer onto his stomach as he shouted and writhed, handcuffs locking closed with a satisfying _snick_. 

Black was dragged away. Sherlock and John stumbled to their feet, Sherlock crowding John back against the wall as her hands hovered by John’s face. With one hand she tilted John’s face up, with the other she ghosted her fingertips across John’s throbbing cheekbone. Her lips were pinched, eyes fierce, but her touch was so, so gentle.

John’s breath caught in her throat.

A sudden cramp seized her lower abdomen and John groaned, her shoulders hunching.

“John! Are you –”

“I’m fine, I’m –”

“You’re – oh.”

They both looked at the crotch of John’s jeans, where a small patch of red was soaking through the fabric.

“Huh,” John said.

“Ah.” Sherlock agreed.

Then they were both laughing, John slumped against the wall and Sherlock slumped against John, clutching at each other as they cackled. Rain was soaking through their clothes, their hair dripping and plastered to their heads.

“God, I’m home,” John gasped. “This is exactly where I’m meant to be.”

“Hey, Freaks!” Donovan called. “Fancy a ride?”

 

John sat on her coat to save the car’s upholstery, squirming in discomfort in her wet clothes and damp underwear. Donovan blasted the heat and refrained from insulting them the whole way home.

They more or less raced each other up the stairs to their flat, flinging away sopping coats as they went. Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders the moment the door slammed shut behind them.

“John,” she said, eyes so fierce it was almost unbearable to maintain the connection, equally impossible to look away. “I’m saying something. Alright? I’m saying something now.”

A slow grin tugged at John’s lips. “Yeah? What are you saying, exactly?”

Sherlock blinked, huffed. “I’m saying we work well together. I’m saying you help me think and I’m saying you’re a constant distraction. I’m saying you’re the best and bravest woman I have ever known and I hate it when you’re hurt, even though I know you can handle yourself, and I hate it when men and women eye you up, and I hate when your attention isn’t on me, and you make me want to be better and I’m saying I _want_ you –”  

 Sherlock broke off with an undignified stutter as John seized her face and pulled their mouths together, smiling too hard for it to be a proper kiss. “What about the Work? I wouldn’t feel comfortable being the other woman.”

“You’re _part_ of the Work, John,” Sherlock insisted. Hands clenching John’s shoulders, she surged forward, pushing John back against the door and tilting her head to better align their lips, sucking on John’s bottom lip in a way that made John’s breath catch in her throat.

An unpleasant rush in John’s groin, and she grimaced as she felt a droplet of blood begin a slow slide down her leg. Sherlock looked at her in alarm as she pulled back. “Sorry, I’ve got a bit of a situation here,” she explained, scrunching her nose and glancing down. “Let me just…” she nodded towards the loo.

“Right! Yes,” Sherlock agreed, stepping back.

John went straight for the shower, desperate to clean herself up now. She let her shirt, socks and bra slap wetly on the floor, but stripped her ruined, blood-stained trousers and pants in the tub. She washed the grime from her body, her skin shivering in anticipation, and turned her face up into the spray, her lips tingling and right cheek stinging. She took the time to shave under her arms, but didn’t bother anywhere else, where the blond hair was long enough to be soft anyway.

Cleaned, dried and tampon inserted, John wrapped their fluffiest towel around her shoulders and briefly studied the darkening bruise on her cheek. Not too bad, the skin was barely broken and had long ago stopped bleeding. Thank God he hadn’t been wearing a ring. She took a couple ibuprofen for her cheek and the cramps, swallowing them with tap water cupped in her hands.

She stepped out of the loo to find Sherlock pacing in the sitting room. Before the seed of dread could take root, Sherlock grabbed hold of her and steered her to sit on the couch before crawling onto her lap like she belonged there.

“Finally,” she sighed, and pulled at the towel, baring John’s scarred shoulder.

John sat tensely, hands on Sherlock’s damp-trouser-clad hips, as Sherlock brushed reverent fingers over the spider-webbed crater in John’s left shoulder. Sea-glass eyes flicked over her face before roving over her scar again, the Sherlock ducked her head, pressing her lips to the mutilated flesh.

“Don’t –”

“Hush,” Sherlock murmured, stroking soothing fingers along John’s arms as she mapped John’s scar with her lips. “You smell like soap,” she complained.

Gradually relaxing into the couch, John brought her right hand up to gently comb through Sherlock’s damp, knotted curls. “You smell like rain and beer.”

The nuzzling continued for several minutes, Sherlock’s hot breaths sending shivers over her skin and tightening her nipples. Sherlock’s wandering hands strayed from her arms to her collarbones, then down to the soft swell of her breasts. When her thumbs grazed her budding nipples, John’s hand clenched in Sherlock’s hair.

The breath against John’s skin halted. Sherlock sat up, eyes dark. “Lie on your stomach.”

“Take off your clothes,” John countered.

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock stood. John raised her eyebrows expectantly, letting the towel fall a little more. Smirking a little, pink colouring her cheekbones, Sherlock unbuttoned her blouse at a leisurely pace, while simultaneously toeing off her shoes. John spread her arms along the back of the couch and Sherlock’s fingers fumbled with the last button. She shucked her shirt and moved to her trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping, and within moments she stood in front of John, feet spread and stance sturdy, in nothing but her bra and knickers.

John let her eyes roam unabashedly along Sherlock’s angles and curves, long enough that the flush in Sherlock’s cheeks bloomed down her throat and chest as well. John licked her lips. Sherlock swallowed.

“Come here,” John murmured.

Two steps and Sherlock’s shins brushed John’s knees, her long, slender fingers twitching against her own thighs. Leaning forward, John pressed her lips to Sherlock’s quivering abdomen, her hands landing on too-sharp hip bones. With a soft, breathy sound, Sherlock placed her hands on John’s shoulders. Sherlock’s skin was still damp and chilled from the rain, a shudder running through her when John breathed hotly against her. Skimming her hands up Sherlock’s sides, fingers smoothing over ribs, John unclasped Sherlock’s practical, beige bra, feeling the way her diaphragm shuddered with her sudden gasp.

Sherlock was too tall for John’s mouth to reach her breasts while sitting, so instead she slid her hands down Sherlock’s back and pressed her lips just above the band of her sports thong.

Sherlock’s grip tightened. “God, John.”

With a little hum, John tucked her fingertips under the material at her hips, then slowly dragged the underwear down Sherlock’s legs, skimming her nose down the crease between leg and torso and pressing her cheek against Sherlock’s upper thigh. Letting the thong drop to the floor, John looked up, breathing in Sherlock’s arousal.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock whimpered, pupils blown, cheeks blazing, lips parted.

“Still want me to lie down?”

 Stepping out of her underwear, Sherlock seized John’s upper arms and tugged. “Up,” she ordered.

John stood, the towel falling away, and Sherlock groaned. Grabbing John’s wrist, Sherlock pulled her in the direction of her bedroom. She let go of John long enough to whip back the covers, then pushed John onto the bed.

“On your stomach.”

With a chuckle, John complied, burying her face in Sherlock’s pillow, inhaling Sherlock’s scent. With a little moan, she wriggled her hips, writhing against the ridiculously soft sheets.

Sherlock was on her instantly. Straddling her hips, hands planting on either side of John’s shoulders, Sherlock pressed her lips to the top of John’s spine, kissing the bone that protruded there. John hummed in pleasure and arched her back, pressing her bum up to push into Sherlock’s pelvis. With a harsh gasp, Sherlock pressed back, lowering her front along John’s back.

“Wait,” she ground out. She pulled away, leaving John’s back cold, and John turned her head to watch as Sherlock scrambled to turn the lamp on, casting the room in warm, golden light. In a moment, she was back, fingers brushing the scarring on John’s shoulder blade. “I didn’t finish my examination.”

“Hurry it up, would you?” John said, letting her hips thrust gently into the mattress. “There are other parts of me that want your attention.”

“Patience,” Sherlock whispered, ghosting first fingertips and then lips against numb, damaged flesh. “Will you tell me someday?”

John sighed, trying to ignore the odd tingling of damaged nerves. “Probably.”

Sherlock hummed and blanketed John with her own body, pressing John into the mattress. “Exquisite.”

John’s lips quirked, unseen. “You have odd taste.”

“I have great taste,” Sherlock rumbled, pressing a kiss to John’s trapezius. “And I’m a genius.” Kiss to John’s nape. “So I know what I’m saying.” Kiss to the side of John’s throat. “When I say you are everything I didn’t even know I needed.”

“Sherlock,” John managed, voice strangled. “Get off me so I can kiss you.”

Sherlock complied instantly, pushing up on hands and knees to allow John to twist onto her back. John reached out and pulled Sherlock down, groaning as their mouths met and Sherlock’s breasts brushed her own. Sherlock tasted like she smelled: rain, a hint of beer and some heady _Sherlock_ flavour that made John want her even more, tasting her with little flicks of tongue. She kissed her until Sherlock was clutching at her, until Sherlock was making little whimpering noises into her mouth, until Sherlock had to break away for a gasping breath.

Taking advantage of Sherlock’s distraction, John flipped them, pressing Sherlock’s back on the bed and planting one leg between Sherlock’s spread knees. She grinned at Sherlock’s look of wide-eyed shock. “My turn.” She ducked to suck a small bruise into Sherlock’s arching throat, feeling the vibrations under her lips as Sherlock gasped and moaned. Crawling slowly downward, she adorned Sherlock’s body with stinging kisses, on her collarbones and along her sternum, settling with her hipbone grazing Sherlock’s labia.

She froze there, hovering just barely above Sherlock’s body, one hand on Sherlock’s heaving ribcage, and licked a hot strip up Sherlock’s sternum to her throat.

“John!” One of Sherlock’s hands clenched in the sheets, the other burying itself in John’s hair, and her pelvis thrusted upwards, rubbing her wet clit against John’s hipbone.

John stopped her teasing. With a low groan, she sucked one of Sherlock’s nipples into her mouth, worrying it between tongue and teeth, and ground her hips against Sherlock’s, circling her pelvis against Sherlock’s damp folds. Sherlock’s thighs squeezed around her leg as she wriggled, smearing her wetness into John’s skin, and with her free hand she grabbed at John’s arse, urging their inelegant undulations.

With a lewd suck, John pulled off one tit and latched onto the other, suckling at it as Sherlock swore breathlessly. John rolled off of Sherlock and onto one hip, soothing Sherlock’s whine of complaint with a firm palm skimming down her flat stomach. She tucked herself against Sherlock’s side, resting her cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapping one leg over Sherlock’s thigh, and watched her own hand as it slid between Sherlock’s legs.

Under John’s ear, Sherlock’s heart galloped frantically, her hips twitching fitfully as John spread her open with her index and little finger, then gently, so gently, drew a circle on her swollen clit with her middle and ring fingers.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, hand scrabbling for John’s hip. “Yes, more.”

Her fingers continued their circling, exerting a little more pressure, massaging that sensitive little nub a little quicker, listening to the little cries stuck in Sherlock’s throat, feeling the wetness of Sherlock’s pleasure. Her own cunt throbbed and she bit her lip, rubbing herself against Sherlock’s long thigh between her legs.

She paused in her circling to dip her fingers lower, nudging her middle finger against Sherlock’s soaked cunt, coating her fingers with slickness.

Sherlock cried out then, pelvis twitching hard, and John groaned loudly, sinking her teeth into Sherlock’s skin as she returned her wet fingers to Sherlock’s clit, quick, tight circles now, her wrist twitching with the motion.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock begged, and seized John’s working forearm desperately. “Oh, God, that’s it, John, don’t stop.”

“Yes,” John gasped, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh hard between her legs. “Sherlock, come on, yes.”

“Ah, _ah_ –” Sherlock panted, voice climbing.

John pushed herself up then until she could watch Sherlock’s face as she came, her eyes clenched shut and mouth hanging open, her pelvis thrusting spastically and her cunt throbbing against John’s hand.

When Sherlock relaxed and opened her heavy-lidded eyes, mouth soft with pleasure, John bowed her head to kiss her fondly. Sherlock continued unconsciously pressing herself into John’s hand, and John murmured against her lips, “Another.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John?”

Nearly scrambling in her eagerness, John moved to her knees between Sherlock’s legs and, ducking her head, dipped her tongue between Sherlock’s folds.

Head slamming back against her pillow, Sherlock swore loudly.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John gasped, the heavy scent of Sherlock’s cunt making her mouth tingle with a burst of saliva. “Unbelievably beautiful.” With a little tap to the inside of her knee, Sherlock spread her legs as wide as they could go, presenting herself shamelessly. With her right hand, John spread her slick labia, groaning at the sight of Sherlock’s red, swollen clitoris, exposed and eager for her mouth. With her left hand, she curled all but her middle finger, then sunk the digit into Sherlock’s weeping cunt, curling it with deadly precision.

“Fuck!” Sherlock yelped, twisting restlessly, lifting her head to look down at John and then flopping back again.

“Feel free to hold my hair back if you want to watch, love,” John murmured, and flicked at Sherlock’s clit with the tip of her tongue.

As John pumped her finger and licked at her, Sherlock did, indeed, grab her hair, gripping the still-damp strands in a shaky grip so she could watch John eat her out. John soon added a second finger, and then a third, making Sherlock keen at the stretch as her knuckles slipped in and out of her, her hand drenched nearly to the wrist. Sucking Sherlock’s clit into her mouth, she felt Sherlock’s cunt begin to clench around her fingers, Sherlock’s grip in her hair almost painful.

“John, John,” she panted, voice nothing but breath. “I’m going to, again, I’m going to.”

Her hand was starting to cramp, but she pushed her fingers in hard, pulsing them to flutter against that spot inside, and hummed around that sweet bud in her mouth.

With a gasp harsh enough to shred her throat, Sherlock’s second orgasm was completely silent. Inner muscles clenching deep and strong around John’s wriggling fingers, Sherlock planted her feet and arched her back, pressing herself hard against John’s clever mouth, her hand fisted in John’s hair. Her thighs shook as she throbbed and throbbed. A whimper escaped her clenched teeth as John hummed again and pulsed her fingers one last time, and then she collapsed onto the mattress like a puppet whose strings had been cut, shuddering with aftershocks.

The hitching of her breath sounded dangerously close to tears, prompting John to carefully withdraw her fingers and crawl up her body. Sherlock’s face was flushed and sweaty, her lips puffy from biting them, and she gazed up at John with such a look of shock that John was mildly concerned.

“You okay?”

Dazed eyes landed on John’s lips and John quickly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, conscious of the salty-slickness that glistened there.

With a laugh that could have been a sob, Sherlock pulled John down for a passionate, if slightly exhausted kiss. “Okay?” she rasped and kissed John again. “You’re mad.”

“Takes one to know one,” John countered with a grin, then sucked in a breath when Sherlock’s thigh nudged between her legs. “Ah.”

With a hum that shook John’s entire frame, Sherlock pushed her onto her back. With a long-fingered hand on John’s hip, she nuzzled into John’s throat, still breathless. “How do you want me?”

“Oh, god,” John breathed, squirming. “At this point, really not picky.”

With a low laugh, Sherlock lipped at John’s earlobe and slid her hand between John’s spread legs, and the long-awaited touch was so good John whimpered.

“Whatever – whatever you’re comfortable with,” she insisted, grimacing in pleasure as Sherlock sucked on her earlobe and twitched her clever fingers between her heated labia. “What with the menstruation and all.”

Pausing in her ear fondling, Sherlock pulled back to gaze down at John, expression amused. “When have you ever known me to be squeamish with blood?”

She ghosted her fingers over John’s clit, and John’s eyes nearly rolled back. “Ung,” she managed.

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed, and swooped down to ravage John’s other earlobe.

“I was, uh, thinking of your, no doubt – _fuck!_ – ludicrously expensive bedsheets. Oh, God,” she moaned as teeth closed around her earlobe and tugged. Simultaneously, Sherlock found a motion with her fingers that had John’s back coming off the bed, a quick flicking just to the right of her clit.

Releasing her ear, Sherlock urged her to sit up and arranged herself so she was sitting with her back against the headboard before pulling John to lean back against her chest. Satisfied with their placement, Sherlock returned her right hand to John’s clit while her left cradled John’s left breast.

“John,” Sherlock chided, which was a frankly odd tone to be confronted with while being fondled. “I have lots of sheets.”

John’s nipples were not particularly sensitive, which Sherlock quickly determined, but it was soothing, somehow, for her breasts to be cupped and weighed in Sherlock’s capable hands. “Right, of course,” John agreed, pelvis thrusting into Sherlock’s hand. “Silly me.”

With a turn of her head, John’s request for a kiss was eagerly granted, Sherlock’s lips soft and tongue sinful against her own. The fingers against her clit quickened and John whimpered into Sherlock mouth, welcoming the hot tongue that delved between her lips. The hand on her breasts migrated lower and suddenly John was tilting her head back with a gasp, clutching Sherlock’s thighs as Sherlock gently tugged on the string of her tampon.

“That is, _ah._ ” John squeezed her eyes shut as Sherlock’s mouth latched onto her bared throat. “That is weirdly –”

“Good?” She tugged again, slightly harder, and John’s inner muscles clenched, her clit sparking with pleasure.

“ _So good_.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock breathed, and this time _pulled_ , not letting up the pressure, and John’s inner muscles tightened and protested, but Sherlock kept pulling, and her fingers kept flicking, and her mouth kept sucking and, oh god, John was going to come from this.

Sherlock pulled harder and sunk her teeth into John’s neck at the same moment that the tampon slipped free, and John cried out. Nails biting into Sherlock’s thighs, she came hard, cried out again when Sherlock replaced the tampon with two long fingers, rubbing soothing circles over her clit as she pulsed and twitched and swore.

When John released her death grip on Sherlock’s abused thighs, Sherlock let the hand on her clit settle on John’s abdomen instead, but left her middle and ring fingers inside John’s fluttering cunt. Head thrown back against Sherlock’s shoulder, John panted, turning her head for a kiss when Sherlock nuzzled at her jawline.

The fingers inside her twitched but John shook her head, relaxing against Sherlock’s body. “No more, I’m good.”

“Just good?”

John grinned, eyes closed. “Bloody fantastic.”

“Hm, yes.” Sherlock pulled her fingers free and raised her hand for inspection, both of them watching the shocking red drip slowly down Sherlock’s palm to her wrist. Sherlock spread her fingers and twisted her hand, watching the blood glint in the lamplight.

Twisting, John looked to see Sherlock’s expression. “Really? That does it for you?”

A delicate shrug. “It’s you. Your blood and slick on my hands, your pain and pleasure coating me. I like it.”

“And I like you,” John murmured, and smiled when Sherlock’s eyes flicked to hers sharply. With a quick kiss, John broke away and made to get out of bed.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her back to collapse against Sherlock’s chest, giggling. “Where are you going?”

“To clean up! Your sheets are one thing, I really don’t think you want blood soaking into your mattress.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Sherlock released her. “Fine. Quite quickly though.”

Scrambling to her feet, John turned to give a sloppy salute before picking up the frankly disgusting used tampon from where it lay staining the sheet, pinching the string between thumb and forefinger. Now that she was standing, gravity was doing what it could to make matters worse and she darted to the loo before the blood could get past her inner thighs, Sherlock’s eyes watching avidly.

She ended up showering quickly again, inserting a fresh tampon and pulling on a pair of knickers with a thin pad as backup for the night. By the time she got back to Sherlock’s room, she had the awkward realization that she might not be invited to stay for the night, but Sherlock’s beckoning arms put that fear to rest. Sherlock’s hands were clean now, but John didn’t see any used tissues, and made the conscious decision to just assume that Sherlock had gotten up and washed her hands in the kitchen sink.

“Should we change the sheets?” John mumbled, snuggling into Sherlock’s side, inhaling the salt of her skin and the scent of sweat just starting to go stale.

“They can wait,” Sherlock murmured, her thumb grazing the darkening bruise on John’s cheek.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re only allowed to bleed on me from now on, is that clear?” Sherlock murmured, voice deadly serious.

John snorted sleepily. “Do my best.”

“Be sure that you do.”

John closed her eyes, feeling the way Sherlock shifted to turn off the lamp then tug the sheets over them before turning onto her side. With a huff, John wriggled and squirmed at Sherlock’s prodding, finally settling on her right side facing the door, back to Sherlock’s front, Sherlock’s knees tucked under hers and a possessive arm around her waist. They’d be sprawled in all directions come morning, she knew.

“I’m glad you said something,” John mumbled, squeezing the hand tucked by her tummy.

“I’m glad you listened.”

They sank into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I love hearing your thoughts! Also, if you want, come say hi to me on [tumblr!](http://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


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